A Fine Line Between Love and Hate
by Maddeline Kirkland-Bonnefoy
Summary: When Amara receives a letter from someone from her past, it sets the wheels in motion for a series of events which have both monstrous consequences and great rewards. With proposals, haunting pasts, and betrayals, what will happen? Read to find out.
1. A Letter and a Proposal

**Warning: **This story includes yuri; that is to say, a pairing between two women. You don't like it? You don't read it. The door (aka the back button) is right at the top left hand corner of your screen; please don't read this just to be a close-minded biggot and flame the lesbian nature of the characters.

Also, this work of fiction uses the American names for Haruka and Michiru. Their personalities remain the same - and I hope I've captured the Neptunian Senshi's correctly - as does their relationship; their American names simply fit better than their Japanese.

Oh, and yes, I do reference the movie "Angels & Demons" - as to why I do this, you'll find out in Part Two. (Yes, I'm calling them "parts" as opposed to "chapters;" that's because I originally began this as just a three-part trilogy, and then Eva pried the idea from me, and we got to brain storming, and well... We're kinda already outlining the sequal... *sweatdrops*)

(Just because she knows why, do NOT go bugging Eva (aka go-ahead-and-try) for the answer to that. If you do... Well, I can't do anything about it, but pealse, just don't, okay? Thanks guys.)

Anyways... Where was I... Oh yeah, now I remember...

**Disclaimer: **I do NOT own Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon; the goddess known as Naoko Takeuchi does. Nor, do I own the references to Angels & Demons; Dan Brown owns the copyright to the book, and I believe Warner Brothers the copyright ot the film... If I'm wrong it was an honest mistake; you can't sue me for that.

And now, to shut up my ramblings, and without further adieu, on with the story!

* * *

Emerald eyes contemplated the letter before her. It wasn't that she knew the sender not; on the contrary, she knew him very well, but rather it was his _words_ which disturbed her. A long-fingered, pianists hand ran shakily through short, cropped blonde hair, before coming to settle upon the gold cross she wore; it hung about a chain of the same metal. The palm was slightly slick with sweat, though only this betrayed her nervousness. A breath of air was gulped, inaudibly, before she forced herself to look rationally at the situation.

Tenou Amara was the name by which this woman was known. She was a twenty-five-year-old racer, Formula One prodigy since the age of fourteen, and staunchly-devout Catholic. Standing at six-foot-one, she possessed piercing emerald eyes, short-cropped sandy-blonde hair, and preferred to dress like a man. This woman was all those things and more. However, anything about herself was, for the moment, far from her mind, as she re-read the letter from her long-time childhood companion; one of her best friends for life.

Patrick McKenna. The brother she had never biologically had. Amara allowed herself to fight her musing memores only for a moment, before relinquishing the fight, and allowing herself to slip into the comforting embrace of times past. Times, when everything was much, much simpler; mostly, times when her trio was together, and not seperated by thousands of miles, and their own lives. For the moment, her mind was turned to the relationship she had had with the only male memeber of the group - she would dwell upon her other best friend at a later date.

She and Patrick had been the best of friends since they were seven years old. The two had gotten lucky, when they ended up attending all the same schools. Of course, that hadn't always put them in the same social groups. Their differing social statuses had been the cause for much hillarity over the years, but all in all, so long as they could stick to each other like glue, they were fine.

Patrick had been the top of their class academically. The straight-A student everyone hated and loved at the same time, he had been one of the few non-geeky, non-nerdy, non-dorky geniuses. His downside, however, when it came to popularity, had been his unwillingness to date anyone. He had always said he would become a priest, just like his adoptive father was. The popular students disliked him for this; always said his "calling" was "uncool," or that celibacy was "overrated." Patrick never paid them any mind; he simply kept doing as he always had, and that was that.

Amara, on the other hand, had always been the sports star. She could remember the day she discovered her ability to perform above par at any sport she tried her hand to. It was a very thrilling experience, if she remembered correctly. Of course, as for her popularity, that was a shoe-in, as she was the star of nearly every team the school had. Her average grades – which even Patrick's help couldn't improve – were ignored for the most part. Of course, eventually she selected the few sports she was most passionate about, and played on those teams exclusively; it helped her to devote more time and energy to what she loved, rather than all sports simply because she was good at them. (She also finally knucled down and yanked her grades up to a high B average, so that was also a good thing.)

Somehow, despite everything that happened during their school lives, they stayed close. Actually, they became closer, if that were even possible. By the end of their freshman year in high school – their ninth year of friendship – Amara had given Patrick the pet name of "brother of my heart;" Patrick reciprocated gladly, calling Amara the "sister of his heart" as well. This was how it went, all through-out their school years. When they finished high school, despite the fact that Amara should have begun racing professionally, she pushed the subject until she was finally allowed to enter the military academy with Patrick.

They learned to fly together, and couldn't have been happier; of course, all good things must eventually come to an end…

Realizing she had allowed herself to drift into memory simply to prolong the inevitable, Amara mentally slapped herself back to reality. With a soft exhail through her nose, she re-read the letter again. She was just as knocked off-kilter this time, as she had been the first; the blonde could scarcely believe her eyes, and yet, there were those three words. The ones which had turned her world upside down within moments. They were there, written plain as day, in the clearest of Italian.

_Il Santo Padre e morto. _The Holy Father has died.

Quickly placing the letter onto the desk in her hotel room – located in St. Petersburg, Russia – Amara picked up the phone and diled the operator. _"__Zdravstvuĭte, pozhaluĭsta, soedinite menya s zarubezhnymi linii, ya dolzhen svyazat__ʹ__sya s Dubline, Irlandiya." _(1) She needed to get into contact with Michelle immediately; to do that, she needed to get into contact with Dublin, Ireland.

* * *

The hotel room in Dublin, Ireland which the violinist was currently staying in was comfortably, yet rather sparsely furnished. The furnishings included, and were limited to, a queen size bed with emerald green sheets, a teal comforter, and emerald pillows; a small vanity with a chair; and an armoire in which, presumably, Michelle had placed her clothes. One of the two doors on the opposite side of the room lead to the in-suite bathroom, the other to the small walk-in closet. Of course, as was clear, Amara was only looking about the room to distract herself – or, more accurately, to distract her mind from wandering to a certain Irishman, whom merely being in this place called to mind.

However, it wasn't just Dublin which was turning her thoughts back to her childhood; Amara was still lingering on the letter she had received a day prior. After calling Michelle, she had done the one thing which came to mind: burned the letter. She hadn't seen anything else to do with it; after all, it wasn't as if she wanted to keep the evidence around. She wanted to forget what her best friend had written - or put it out of her mind, if the former were not possible - as quickly as she could. The letter would have only hindered this, and so she had quickly disposed of it; throwing it away would only have made her think about it more. She was dwelling enough as it was, and needed to shut it from her mind if she wished to remain sane, she scolded herself. She tried, but wasn't sure if it worked.

The racer's thoughts were interrupted, by the opening of the door, and Michelle's breezing through it. Masking her turbulent emotions, Amara pushed away from the wall, and allowed the violinist to waltz into her arms. A quick, chaste kiss later, and they were seated on the bed, the smaller woman speaking of her recent concerts, a smile brightening her features. For these moments – Amara knew Michelle didn't wish for her to speak, just to listen for a bit – the racer examined her lover of five years; and examined her closely, at that.

It seemed as if Michelle hadn't aged a day in the years they had known one another; and yet, Amara suddenly felt older than she assumed any twenty-five-year-old had the right to feel. She supposed it was because of the letter, but again shoved the thought from her mind, focusing completely upon Michelle. The smaller woman had skin of a glowing, peachy white, and curves which most women would kill for. As for her face, it was much like that of a china doll, with all her features what most would call 'perfect.' Of course, Amara held that, though only God and Christ were perfect, Michelle did come a close second. The violinist's hair tumbled in waves down to the small of her back, their hue being much like the aquamarine of the ocean; her eyes, though sometimes called sapphire, were only truly captured by the expression 'sea-blue,' for that was what they were – the blue of the sea, and nothing was closer than her eyes.

Thinking about her lover's eyes, put the blonde in mind of another pair of eyes. Ones that were mostly grey, but held a spark of steel blue when the right mood was upon the one to whom they belonged. Unconsciously, these thoughts caused her hand to move to her cross; Michelle noted the action, and commented on it, one perfectly curved aquamarine eyebrow raised.

"'Mara, is everything… alright?"

Her words were almost hesitant, as if she weren't sure of the answer she would get.

At length, the blonde spoke in reply. "I… Had a letter, the other day…" Amara trailed off, almost uncertain of what to say next. At Michelle's nod of encouragement, the racer continued.

"It was from Patrick; he said he would like to inform me that the His Holiness has died."

When this received a somewhat perplexed look from her lover, the emerald-eyed woman sighed inwardly, mentally face palming. She should have known that the words 'His Holiness' would be lost on her Shinto girlfriend. Taking a breath and counting to ten before letting it out, so as not to snap at Michelle for something that wasn't her fault – it seemed she'd been doing that a lot lately, snapping at people for things they had no control over – Amara spoke again.

"The Pope, love; the Pope is dead."

The aquanette's lips formed a soft 'o' shape, her understanding clear now in her eyes. "I see," she murmured in response, her hands coming to join with Amara's own. "And, this saddens you not only because of the fact that your religion has lost a beloved leader, but because Patrick was so close to him? He was the Pope's adopted son, correct?"

Amara nodded in reply to Michelle's query – both of them – the vocalization of her 'yes' unneeded. Michelle then took a moment, unknowingly just as the racer had done before, to intently study her other half. Amara's short cropped, sandy-blonde hair; her intense emerald green eyes; her masculine, yet still beautiful facial features… Her strong, wiry, athletic build; her masculine style of dress; the way she touched her cross when in deep thought, or when that old sadness clouded her eyes. The violinist knew well what that sadness was; it stemmed from a deep hurt that the blonde had once caused to someone she loved dearly, a hurt which Amara was never sure she could heal.

It was that very sadness, which told Michelle something she would rather not have known; something that she hated to acknowledge, but that she knew she would need to accept. The fact of the matter was, that Amara would never be fully hers – some part of the racer, however small, would always belong to the Irish priest, whom had been the first person the blonde had ever loved. Oh, Michelle knew that all of Amara's love in a romantic sense would be hers; it wasn't that. It was simply that the emerald-eyed woman would always love Patrick as well, even if not in the way of a lover. The violinist had never come into a previous situation where she knew she had all of someone in one sense, but only most of them in all others.

Sometimes, Michelle hated that she had to share Amara with Patrick, even if the blonde only considered him a brother.

Shaking the dark thoughts from her head, the violinist noted that her lover's gaze was fixed just as intently upon her, as the aquanette's had been upon the blonde. Raising her brow in askance for the second time during their conversation, Michelle repeated her first query, which had begun this conversation in the first place. As she did so, the shorter of the two women stroked the back of the racer's hand with her thumb, intending to be calming.

"'Mara, is everything alright?" The hesitance from the first voicing of these words was gone. The concern, however, was still there.

For a moment, there was silence, though for Michelle, that moment felt like an eternity. Then, Amara spoke in reply. "Patrick's letter… It got me to thinking, mostly about the fragility of life, and how quickly things can end. It also helped me come to a firm choice on a decision which I've been wrestling with for a good year now." Though initially hesitant, the emerald-eyed woman quickly gained surety in her words. Releasing her lover's hands, the blonde racer slipped from the bed, dropped to one knee, and then reclaimed the violinist's hands in her own.

Michelle could have sworn her heart stopped at that moment.

Though, if that was what it did merely at the gesture, then it literally exploded at the words her other half uttered.

"Kaioh Michelle," Amara began her short speech thus, using the Japanese way of placing the surname before the given name. "My angel, my love, my soul-mate, my other half; the air I breathe, the light of my life, my reason for existing, my only and ever true love…" She paused, wondering how best to say the final words. Eventually she settled upon the simplest form of them. "Will you marry me?"

Deepest emerald locked with brightest sea-blue. A moment stretched, became a millennia between them. Neither spoke, both fearing what would happen if the silence was broken.

As the silence lengthened, Michelle stood, and tugged Amara with her. And then, in wordless acceptance, yet in worlds more profound than those of the greatest poets, the violinist closed the distance between them, and kissed her lover deeply, passionately, and lovingly. A heartbeat-moment passed – then, a fire of passion and love ignited within both women, one they had never before known. The two tumbled onto the bed, their clothes soon meeting with the floor of the hotel room.

And, as two became one over and over again that night, in more profound ways than words can ever describe, the only witness to the love of these two souls, was Michelle's violin. The instrument rested in its case, propped against the wall. It hadn't been touched since the aquanette set it down to greet her fiancée.

* * *

**We stayed in Dublin for another day, so that Michelle could finish with her concerts there. After that, while booking a flight to Italy, we both cleared our schedules for the next six months. I know not if we rushed into things too quickly, but after being together for ten years, being engaged for less than three days means little. In the end, all I knew, was that I wanted the two most important people in my life to date to get to know one another, and if I could, to get my best friend to preside over the wedding.**

**Never did I think about what might happen when Michelle and I reached our destination of Italy.**

**Never did I envision what happened happening.**

**Never did I expect to be so grossly betrayed by the one I thought of as the brother of my heart.**

**And I sure as all Hell never imagined in my wildest dreams that I would forgive him for what he did.**

End Notes:

1: Translation: "Hello, please connect me to an overseas line; I need to contact Dublin, Ireland." Yes, Haru speaks Russian in this fic - as well as Japanese (obviously...) German, Italian, and English.

2: The style of the ending is like that which Feisu-sama uses; s/he inspired me to end part one like that.

3: Yes, parts Two and Three will end in the same format; Two will be Patrick, Three will be Michi, and Four Eva. The pattern will then repeat until the end of the fic.

4: Don't yell at me if my characterization of Patrick is a bit off in the ensuing parts... I have no experiace what-so-ever with writing as a male, so cut me some slack, mmkay?

Now... I hope you enjoyed, and if you didn't tell me why. On second thought - tell me why you enjoyed it too. And, if you must qualify, then please also tell me why. I like comments, encouragement, and critiques, but flames will be given to Mars/Hino Rei/Sparky (aka Sailorspy94). (As a final note, "to qualify" as I use it here, means "to agree with some parts and disagree with other parts.")


	2. A Visit and a Betrayal

**(A/N: Okay, yes, so it's been a bit over a year since the first chapter came out... I'm well aware of this, but, a lot of things happened, most of which I will NOT be saying here, but which can (some, at least) be read about on my profile. My exuses aside, I hope the second chapter was worth waiting for.)**

* * *

Emerald and light grey were locked; the gazes were not hostile, simply assessing. As the two hadn't seen one another in five years – save for a visit neither cared to remember – the analyzing was understandable. The steel blue, which tinged that which had once been the hue of a stormy sky, accompanied the slightly wry grin that curved the lips of the man to whom these eyes belonged. The woman who stood across from him mirrored the expression, her emerald eyes sparkling.

For a moment, Amara was reminded of something which had happened years ago, but quickly put it out of her mind, in favor of recalling how she and Michelle had arrived. They had booked the flight to Italy, and the hotel, the day Michelle had agreed to come with the blonde; they had flown out the next day. The flight had been long, true, but as both had gotten much-needed sleep, despite the fact that his was contrary to the blonde's usual insomnia, it hadn't been too bad.

Upon arriving at the Italian International Airport, both celebrities had skillfully dodged their fans and the paparazzi, in favor of collecting their bags quickly, and catching a cab. That had been this morning; it was now afternoon. The couple had elapsed the drive to the hotel in comfortable silence; the drive having gone quicker than either had expected. The racer had even commented that, since she was last in Italy, it seemed traffic had improved. They had arrived at the hotel without much fuss; they had requested that they be treated like any other guests.

After everything had been unpacked, and the blonde had finished primping – the violinist had noted that this was out of character for the taller woman, but the racer had dismissed her fiancée's worries – the two had hailed another cab, and were headed for the Vatican. To ensure that they would have no trouble, Amara had called ahead to fill in the person they intended to see, that they were in Italy, and that they were coming to the Vatican. And so, the two had arrived, and informed security of whom they were there to see. After a call had been made to confirm their identities, the couple had been allowed inside, and then escorted to the Papal office.

Once there, the Swiss Guard had informed them that they could enter any time they wished, and then had promptly left them. Amara had then gently requested that Michelle wait outside the office. The violinist was only to come in when the racer called for her; the look on the blonde's face must have swayed the aquanette. Michelle had been slightly confused, but had chalked it up to the racer's simply wishing to catch up in private first, and so had agreed. Of course, Amara could feel sea-blue eyes burning a hole in her back as she walked into the office.

Now, coming back to the present, Amara steadily held Patrick's grey-blue gaze with her own emerald; a slightly cynical twist to her lips. No, she wasn't bitter; she simply found the situation ironic. More like dramatic irony, she mused. They had always sworn they would never come to an impasse, where neither knew what to say anymore, and yet, here they were, in that very situation. The silence stretched between them, with not a word spoken. Oddly, or perhaps not so oddly, Amara felt like a seven-year-old again.

Taking a moment to simply breathe, Amara used this time to look her best friend – the brother of her heart – over. He hadn't changed much in the five-year interim, at least, not in ways which were obvious at first glance. Of course, having known him all her life, Amara could pick out the subtle differences, how he had changed, and she was sure she knew the catalyst. The racer could see that the Pope's death had hurt Patrick deeply; he was in pain physically, mentally, and spiritually. And, that was not all that the slightly taller blonde could see. His eyes were a bit colder, his posture just a tad too rigid, his face lined with unspoken trials; and, most subtle, yet most obvious of all, was the shadow of sadness over his features, in his eyes... As she noted these things, a stab of guilt and déjà vu impaled her heart; an old fault come back to haunt her, nearly ten years after the fact.

_'You once caused that look, you know; the sadness, the pain; the worn look of bone-deep weariness - they were your fault for a very long time. How could you forget that, and still call yourself his sister?' _The little voice whispered into her mind; Amara felt the old guilt swirl within her once more - eating at her, constantly reminding her... _Your fault... Your fault... All your fault..._

Amara was glad that Patrick's speaking snapped her back to reality; she was glad not only for her sanity, but for him as well because of what she may have done, driven by the blame she placed on herself for something she could not control.

"Sister, I –" He broke off, searched for words. He took a breath, began again. "Sister, I never expected to see you here… Especially now, of all times…" His accent was, to an extent, thicker than Amara remembered it; this jarred her for a moment. And then, she remembered. At times like this, when deep emotion swelled within him, this was the time when Patrick's ever-so-slight, ever-so-soft brogue – his roots – showed the Irishman true for what he was. This brought a small, crooked smile to the racer's lips.

"Did you think I would leave you alone when you needed me most, brother? Do you really think me that base? Or, that time, did I wrong you so deeply that you can no-longer rely upon myself to be by your side when you have want of me most?" She knew how he could – how he would – interpret that last sentence. She had always been able to see how he would take some of her words, give them a meaning which she herself did not wish them to have, and then spit them back at her, at a later date. Amara had begun to notice this most about nine years ago, when they were seventeen.

It came from the unfounded hope Patrick still held; the one she would need to rip from him now.

Of course, being the type of person she was, the blonde disliked hurting her friends if she could avoid it, and so she cast about – covertly, of course – for some other topic of conversation. They always changed topics almost randomly anyways, so she wouldn't arouse any type of suspicion within the Irishman. A slight smirk curled the corner of her lips as she spoke, mirth glinting in her emerald eyes. "B.S." Amara nearly laughed aloud at the scandalized look on Patrick's face; he was always so much fun to tease. Albeit, he seemed to have lost some of his humor; before, he would have laughed along, teasing her right back – now, he just looked traumatized. Or, so the racer thought.

"I _think_ you mean 'Peanut-butter,' sister." The wry twist to Patrick's lips effectively proved her wrong. This once, the blonde was glad to not have been right.

"Oh, no; I meant B.S." Amara's smirk returned full force with her words. The two-years-younger male shook his head, grinning both exasperatedly and affectionately.

"Mara, don't _make_ me get the cards." It seemed that her tactic had worked. Not only had the mood been changed, but the somber mood had been lifted. However, this train was about to come to a crashing halt.

"Get 'em! Five years since we've played or no, I can still kick your ass!" Patrick's mirth faded then, and the racer belatedly realized her mistake. She was occupied with berating herself mentally for being such an idiot, when her companions' speaking pulled her from her thoughts.

"Please don't curse in my Father's office, Amara." His voice had gone quiet, and his eyes – God be merciful, his _eyes_! The guilt they evoked within her tore at her heart in bloody, unscrupulous fashion. It quite clearly harkened back to a time ten years previous, when she had shattered his heart unintentionally, and when she had realized that they could never be the same as they had been ever again. They had been young and stupid, true, but at the moment, the racer felt as if she were fifteen once more – awash with shame due to something she had no control over.

A heartbeat of silence passed – a moment, or an eternity, neither was sure which – and the conversation was steered right back on track, the awkwardness not again mentioned, as if it had never been. "That aside, how has life been for you, sister? I have heard that you've won the Formula One World Championships twice now, and if rumors are correct, you're trying for a third…?" A grin curved the female's lips; she was quite proud of her status as the only woman ever to race in Formula One, let alone the only woman to ever win. "And as for you, brother of mine, it seems you've achieved much as well - _Il __Camerlengo__, mi __sono__impressionato__._" And she truly meant it; she was impressed, and her sincerely affectionate tone of voice said so, though her face and eyes gave away nothing. The blonde couldn't help but laugh softly, when the Irishman in question blushed modestly, and smiled sweetly at her. They always had been, and always would be, the best of friends.

That was why it was so much more the pity, that she was merely stalling what was inevitable.

She would have to break his heart a second time.

"May I ask you a question?" she began, suddenly nervous, absent-mindedly wringing her hands. She hadn't been this nervous in a while, but she knew very well why she was nervous now. Her friendship with him hung in the balance, in more ways than one.

"You just did," he replied, a slight smile playing on his lips. No matter how many times they played this silly little game, Amara never seemed to fully grasp it until two or three times in. He had to admit, it seemed a bit cruel, but he enjoyed this little game.

"May I ask you two questions?" she tried again, furrowing her brows a small bit in annoyance.

"That was your second," he grinned. He didn't think she was going to take that long to pick up on the game this time. But, there would be other times where she would take maybe ten minutes to ask the simplest of questions.

She held her tongue for a moment, biting back a curse or two. "May I ask you four questions?" she asked, finally stopping to figure out the little game Patrick was playing.

"You may," he allowed, cautious of her sudden – and completely uncharacteristic, so much so that it was almost alarming – nervousness surfacing again.

"As you very well know, I love Michelle," she started off. He nodded in confirmation. "Well, seeing as we've been together since high school, I figured it was time for the next step in our relationship. I asked her to marry me." Patrick stood to offer his congratulations, though it wasn't a surprise in the least. Amara held up a hand as a request for silence for a moment longer. "Would you marry the two of us?"

The hesitation on his face was the first clue that something was wrong. Second was the way that he shifted weight from one foot to the other – it was his nervous habit that had first made itself known during oral exams in high school. Third, and the homerun, was his answer. "I can't." Quickly, seeing the obvious hurt on Amara's face, which she hadn't bothered to hide behind her emotionless mask this time, he did his best to remedy what he had just said. "I give you my blessings, though. You and Michelle were made for each other."

"It's not the same," she mumbled, doing her best not to cry. It was sort of a stupid thing to cry over, and just crying in general was so out of character for herself that Amara almost wondered why she would, but the idea of Patrick marrying her and Michelle had become such a big deal for both her and Michelle that the wedding would now seem lesser than or incomplete with a different priest.

And then, seeing her sadness, it was as if something snapped within him. Granted, the way she stood – her coat falling slightly from her shoulders, revealing the tight red blouse beneath – didn't help matters, nor did her moist emerald green eyes, but the small part of his mind which shouted that he _should not do this_ was quickly silenced. He knew she wasn't doing it on purpose, and even if she were, he knew that she wasn't serious. Yet, when that thing snapped within him, Patrick knew that things would never – could never – be the same between them ever again.

Amara wondered what was up, when he stepped towards her, but she was busying herself with drying her eyes before she could make an emotional fool out of herself. She would beat herself up later for being caught off guard and letting events happen as they did, but for now, she didn't suspect a thing. Before she could speak, and even before she rightly knew what was going on, his hands were on her shoulders, holding her fast. Then, his lips were covering hers, and she was reminded of what had happened nearly a decade before – only now, their roles were reversed. Taking her mind from the present had been a_ very_ bad idea, it seemed; by the time the pain at the back of her thighs snapped her back to the here and now, she was pinned hard against the desk. Her body said struggle, but her mind recognized that she couldn't break the hold; he was the one with more training than she, after all.

A gasp of shock escaped her involuntarily then, as she felt one of his knees press between her thighs, spreading her legs forcibly apart. Vaguely, she wondered if the guards outside the doors would hear her if she screamed, but quickly dismissed the idea; she knew the whole room was soundproofed. For now, she had two choices: fight hopelessly, or submit and remover her mind from what was happening. Given this choice, she knew her pick right off; she had last been raped when she was eight years old, she wouldn't let now be added to the list without a fight, even if she knew she couldn't prevent it. But then, even the choice of fighting or screaming was taken from her.

She had been wearing a scarf of Michelle's, which he roughly removed and used to gag her. Screaming was now definitely out, as was struggling – she'd just choke herself with either. When he bent his head to whisper – to _hiss_ into her ear, she wished she hadn't slept through the class on how to block a sense. _'That would really be helpful now, stupid…'_ But of course, she heard every word all the same. Even if she didn't want to, she heard _everything_ he said.

"You know, every time I saw you kiss that bitch Michelle, I wished you would kiss me like that…But of course not; you ever were normal, Amara, so the fact that you chose to be a _dyke_ shouldn't surprise me." His laugh was low and cold; she forcibly held back a shiver, she had never before heard him so contemptuous. "Of course, in m opinion, it's just because you've never been with a man." And now, the blonde wished she'd told the whole truth about her childhood. She'd been willing enough to tell about her abusive father, but she had never spoken of the other horrors she had witnessed and been subject to at his hands. Molestation, rape, and psychological torture had only been the very tip of the iceberg.

The one sound she had hoped never to hear again – at least, never when pinned down by a _male_ – jarred her back to reality. While she had taken her little trip down the Elm Street of her childhood, Patrick had removed his outer cassock, and now only wore the close-collared black button down and black slacks. The sound which had jerked her back to reality had been the sound zipper of said slacks being pulled down. He probably saw the far in her eyes, and spoke words which were probably supposed to comfort her, but which only made things worse. "Don't worry Amara; I'm just helping you fix the wrong choice you made." Of course, her mind knew when she had had enough, as she seemed to be entering a sort-of dream-like sate – as if a wall of water separated her from everything that was happening to her.

Thus, it only vaguely registered, when he pinned both her wrists above her heat with one of his hands. She could hardly feel as he worked to get her pants undone. Amara was glad of this, even if she did know when her jeans (quickly followed be her boxers) reached her knees. Then, in a moment, as she felt his weight bearing down on her, everything ripped back into sharp focus. She struggled. She thrashed wildly. She would not – could not – must not let him – !

SMACK!

Her head snapped back and connected hard with the surface of the desk she was all but laying on now. The force of the blow had her seeing stars. She could already feel the back of her head and her face bruising. "The Devil is certainly strong in you, isn't he Amara? Get thee hence, Satan! Leave this girl be." In any other circumstance, she would have found it amusing that he was quoting Bible verses, and that he had called her a girl, when she was the older one here, but the situation sucked any humor which may have been found from the words. But of course, the coldness in her words focused her. He was hovering just above the one place only her gynecologist and Michelle were allowed to be, and yet, she could no longer fight. Just as when she was a child, a strong blow to her head would subdue her – she would still be defiant, but she would no-longer struggle.

And then, he slammed himself inside of her, satisfied that she wouldn't physically protest any longer. Her whole body convulsed with her near-silent scream. She barely felt the hard and fast rhythm he established, so was she on trying not to cry; her efforts were valiant, but to no avail. Though her virginity had been taken from her two decades previously, she still remembered the event as if it had happened yesterday. She had felt as if she would rip in half from the sheer agony of it. This, however, _this_ was nothing short of white-hot _torture. _Every time he went back within her, it felt as if she were being stabbed – speared, rather – by a lance of molten metal.

Amara supposed, later, that she had blacked out then. The next thing she knew, she was sliding down the side of the desk, and Patrick – he was standing just a bit away from her, spent and slightly out of breath. The racer's legs felt like water (ironically, much as they did when she had pushed herself even beyond exhaustion on a track and field track) and only a few scattered thoughts floated around her foggy, traumatized brain. _'Oh my God… I was just raped by my best friend… And on the late Pope's desk, too, for Christ's sake…' _Dimly, she registered Patrick's collecting his outer cassock from the floor, after having zipped up his pants. Once the outer, robe-like garment was placed upon his person once more, he half bent down and reached out a hand to help her to her feet.

Everything was suddenly clear again, as rage flooded her veins. Knocking the offered hand aside, she stood under her own power. Yanking up her boxers and pants, she glared death at him. "Traditore," she breathed, and he looked confused. (She hadn't even registered that she was speaking Italian rather than English or Latin; but ti was true, he _was_ a traitor.) This served only to further ignite the fire of fury within her. As she fastened and re-zipped her own pants, Amara's glare only intensified. "Traditore." She spoke at a more normal volume, and though she finally registered that the gag had, at some point, been removed, she brushed this aside impatiently. As she spoke the adjective a third time, her vocal volume increased. Her hands balled into fists at her side, and she was visibly shaking with rage by the time things came to a boil.

"Fottuto TRADITORE!Non potrò mai perdonarti! Non potrò mai parlare con voi di nuovo!" She finally screamed, before turning sharply on her heel and barging through the office doors to the reception hall beyond. (Calling him a fucking traitor and making it clear she would _never_ forgive him or speak to him again had given her grim satisfaction, but she completely ignored it for now.) Though she had noticed the fact that he had seemed to come back to himself – and with a gasp of horror at that – she had ignored it completely. Honestly, she couldn't have given less of a fuck right now; the bruise on her face and the back of her head still throbbed painfully. "We're leaving," were the only words the taller woman spoke to Michelle, as she stormed past. The violinist followed; she said nothing, as she understood speaking would only fan the flames, but silently wondering what had caused this in the first place. Neither mentioned the vivid, large purple bruise on her face.

And meanwhile, Patrick worked to ignore the guilt from his realization – he had a wide-scale threat to finish planning, and Conclave was less than forty-eight hours away.


	3. Pasts and Intrusions

**(A/N: Okay, as close to a double update as you'll ever get from this story... As Evelyn notes at the bottom, this may _seem_ like filler, but it's not - you'll need it as the story progresses, as references will be made back to things that happened before the main storyline took place. Also, just as a quick heads-up, this chapter combines both book and movie elements (Patrick is the Pope's son, he is made Pope, etc). Also... As of now, the story will have almost nothing to do with Angels and Demons, so... yeah... Okay, enough rambling, onto the chapter - glad you didn't have to wait a year for this one, yeah? 8is shot for her fail joke, and runs away*)**

* * *

A hand rubbed gray eyes wearily. Well, _that_ had certainly been an exhausting day and if the pain returning to his chest – due to the morphine wearing off – was any indication, he would need to receive _proper_ medical attention before it was over. The priest grimaced; he disliked hospitals as much as a certain best friend of his hated swimming – and that was saying something. A twinge in his chest – something akin to remorse – reminded him that she probably wasn't his best friend any longer. That pain had nothing to do with the possible broken ribs he had sustained from parachuting out of the helicopter, nor from the brand he had pressed to his own chest mere hours before; however, despite (or perhaps because of) that, the origins of the pain were written off as unimportant as of that moment.

Raising his head from where he had learned his forehead against the cool glass of the window, Patrick McKenna once again went over the events of the night – and the day – in his mind once more. The threat from the quote-unquote Illuminati had arrived with Vitoria Vetta and Robert Langdon following close behind. Oh, those two had thrown a wrench in the works, alright; however, thanks to his quick thinking – and a bit of momentary acting, the lessons he should thank a certain other blonde for – everything else had gone off without a hitch, and all without incriminating himself, to boot. Of course, now that he knew certain truths… He was beginning to regret _some_ of his actions – some, not all.

Turning from the view of the cityscape, to face the interior of the papal office – now _his_ office, a thought he couldn't help but wince at – Patrick gave a slight start. "Evelyn!" The woman's name was spoken with a slight gasp, once the wild beating of his heart had settled somewhat. The blonde, whom he had – ironically – just been thinking about, grinned at him, ice-blue eyes shining with her usual mirth. For the gray-eyed male, however, the situation was not mirthful in the slightest. Evelyn stood in the same place a woman her senior only in age and height had stood mere two days before – and some irrationally paranoid part of Patrick feared the same would happen again. Shaking himself, he forced himself to focus on the situation at hand, rather than his over-active imagination.

Briefly, he wondered if that was what had brought the three together in the first place – they all had extremely active imaginations and crazy senses of humor.

"Lynn, what're you doing here, and don't you know how to knock?" Some of his irritation was portrayed and this just made Evelyn grin wider; by this time, the Cheshire Cat would've been jealous.

"It's against my religion – I strongly believe in doorbells and doorknobs, but knocking… Not so much," came her reply, laughter clear in her voice. A rather awkward silence followed – Evelyn awaiting an answer, and Patrick unsure of what to say.

"I'm not going to dignify that with a response," the gray-eyed Irishman muttered at length. Ignoring Evelyn's cry of "you're no fun!" and pout, he repeated his original inquiry. "Lynn, what are you doing here? Did you talk to Mara before you came; did she send you here?" He had added the second as an afterthought, but quickly realized his mistake, when icy blues narrowed dangerously at him. Patrick gulped inaudibly; it took a lot to make the soccer star mad, but if you were unfortunate enough to do so… Even God would be hard-pressed to save you from her wrath. The only person whose wrath he feared more was Amara's – Evelyn may have been able to kick like a horse, but the taller of the two blondes had black belts in three or more martial arts, and also had her military training.

"No," the shorter blonde's answer came soft, but not frigid. "I haven't talked to Mara since the last time a race of hers and a game of mine happened in the same place. That was a year ago in Madrid, Spain." The last was added as clarification, but also served in further pointing out Patrick's mistake to him.

"Why are you here, then?" he asked, wanting to quickly move away from the topic of Amara. The blonde crinkled her nose, her eyes illustrating a certain amount of hurt. "Not that I'm not glad you're here!" he clarified. "I'm just curious as to why you're here."

"I got your letter, you moron," she grinned. "You wanted me to come. I just got here now because I had a game yesterday. So, I'm dog-tired and if you don't want to see me right now, I will return to my hotel room and call my coach because I can't trust she checked her e-mail and caught mine that I won't be to practice today." She turned to leave before Patrick called her back.

"Sorry, I'm just not in the best of moods," he apologized, gesturing to a chair. "I do appreciate your coming. As you can imagine, it's been a bit rough losing His Holiness, and then almost immediately expected to become the pope." He shook his head, though she was unclear if it was in sadness or simply to clear his head. "But you obviously know how I've been. How have you been?"

She grinned as she sat down in the chair he had offered, running a hand through hair, bobbed short to be easily maintained during the rigorous soccer season. "I've been fine. I'm playing all the time and it's fantastic." She licked her lips before giggling. "English is a bit strange to me right now. I'm so used to Spanish." She shook her head before thinking for a moment. "Nothing fantastic going on with me. You know, the usual. I see plays and whatnot in my off time. Even if I can't understand it. I recently saw _Romeo and Juliet _in Russian. At least, I think it was Russian," she added with a small laugh.

"How can you _think _it was Russian?" he asked, wondering just how airheaded his friend could be.

"I was in Russia," she began. "I've never heard Russian in my life. Guess what! Not as much Russian spoke in Russia as you'd think. Bloody everyone knows English." She groaned in frustration. "Who knows what damn language they were speaking." She blushed and covered her mouth before quickly adding, "Sorry for my language. I probably should have watched it a bit more carefully."

He waved his hand to dismiss her apology. His phone chirped; when he looked at it, his face immediately turned apologetic. "My meeting with the cardinal just got moved up; I'm so sorry." He slipped his phone into his pocket before grabbing his wallet and suitcase. "I'll see you soon though, okay? I'll call you or something." He left her with a small smile and a one-armed hug.

She stood in the doorway to his office, stuffing her hands into her jeans pocket, brushing the tails of her plaid button-up out of her way. "Sure," she said cynically. "I'll wait for you to call me." She shut the door behind her before leaving and crashing at her hotel.

* * *

Patrick sat facing the cardinal, nervously picking at his thumbnail. The meeting had wound up stretching across three days, but this day would be the longest by far. He felt a bit guilty for, after finally calling Evelyn, hanging up while she was in tears; little did she know, he was also in tears. He hoped that explaining his life, more or less, to the cardinal would ease some of the guilt from various parts of his life.

"I can't say the times we had together were _always _the greatest, but they were better than things would've been without those two. The BD, or 'Blonde Duo' as they were so often referred to, were my best friends in the entire world; when we were together, the three of us, it was as if we could take on the world and win. But, I'm getting ahead of myself here; to truly understand us, and the bond we shared, I'll need to tell you how we met, along with everything we shared. Both the good times and the bad times. When we felt like he'd just stared death in the face and come out alive. When we felt like we'd conquered the world, just because we'd all gotten passing grades on final exams. When we'd felt like the world was crashing down around our ears because life sucked at the time. I'll tell you all that and more, from the very beginning.

"I first met the older of my two best friends when I was seven years old. As my mother was still alive at the time, most of the school bullies would harass me because I didn't know who my father was. It had never been too bad, so I learned to deal with it. Or at least, nothing was very bad until one day in the fall of second grade. Whereas before things had merely been verbal, with a shove or two thrown in once in a while, things had now turned physical. That day was the first and last time I was ever in a fight until I joined the military academy. That was also the day a certain blonde whirlwind saved my life, and then refused to leave.

"Everything happened so fast, to this day I'm not sure what exactly took place, nor how it transpired. One moment, I was waiting to have my face punched into one giant bruise, and the next, my assailant was on the ground, crying words which no seven-year-old should know; his nose had been broken. No sooner had I turned to think whomever had saved me, I heard the other boys - all were older and, frankly, stronger than I - rallying around their fallen comrade. By the time I had turned back around, my movements halting and my insides cold with fear, the group of boys was having the snot pummeled out of them; the girl doing it wore an intense expression of disgust. Though her boyish manner of dress, short hair the color of ripe wheat, and eyes as cold as the green gem they were names for, would have led anyone else to believe she was a boy herself, some part of me knew she was female - granted, her height, which was already impressive then, and her slightly masculine voice didn't help with that conclusion, but I digress.

"I believe that was the day my feelings for her began to develop. Even without knowing her name or anything about her, I felt none of the abject fear which should have been coursing through my veins at that moment. Though I didn't know why at the time, I felt I could trust her; at the very least, I knew with almost insane sureness that I could trust her with my life. Call me crazy if you will, but that wouldn't change the truth. To this day, I would willingly trust either of my best friends with my life.

"When she had sufficiently taught the group of bullies why it was stupid to mess with her, she turned to me and said, 'Kid, I think you just became my responsibility because there ain't no way in Hell or Heaven you could do with without me.' And that was that. I had become friends with Amara Haruka 'Trouble' Tenou. Called Double T or just Trouble Tenou in our elementary school days. People knew not to mess with Amara, not unless they wanted to keep all their bones unbroken. I quickly learned what buttons I could and couldn't push with Amara, but the worst she ever did was give me a black eye no matter how pissed she was. In that year, I learned that her mother was a native Italian while her father was Japanese - her looks and height came from her mother, while her name and personality came from her father.

"She was two years older than I - almost - and I found I couldn't envy the things she had which I didn't. Even the clueless kid I was at the time could figure that out. I couldn't see the signs at the time, but they are plain as day looking back. Having a mother often away at work was better than having none at all, and at least being able to believe that God was my father was better than having an alcoholic father with a 'spare the rod, spoil the child' ideology. In the end, we simply never spoke of those matters. Though flawed at times, that year was as close to a blissful time as we would ever have together for a very long time afterward.

"For a seven and nine year old, what happened before the school year was over could easily cause PTSD; I was lucky, Amara not so much.

"It might be common knowledge what happened to me - the church my mother and I were visiting was bombed, and my mother perished - but what happened to my first best friend is only known by a bare handful of people, most of whom have passed on by now; whether from natural or unnatural causes has never really concerned me. As for the events themselves… They are not mine to disclose, and so I shall not speak of them. After my mother's death, and shortly after my father adopted me, I began attending a new school, somewhat of a prep-school you might call it. It had uniforms, a great education, and a well-known sports program; I hated it. The reason why is simply enough: I hadn't seen my best friend for months by that time, and doubted I would ever again. Of course, my father would always say hat God worked in mysterious ways; I came to learn he was right. Just half a year after we had last seen one another, Amara showed up at my school; she would be attending with me, in the same grade as I, if only because her previous education wasn't what the fifth grade teachers could accept. Soon enough, we were virtually joined at the hip once more, and school had become bearable for both of us.

"Less than two months after that, the final part of our trio came.

"Amara met her first and then introduced us; it felt strangely _right _to get to know Evelyn, or Lynn as became my nickname for her, while Amara called her Eva or sometimes Eve. In less time than we had expected, we were fast friends. This was probably because we were all primarily something the others were not; Amara quickly became the sporty one, Evelyn the artsy, theatrical one (though she played soccer, so she and Amara could bond over that), and I was the smart one (Lynn was too, to an extent, so we banded together to help Amara). The three of us quickly designated one lunch period a week to discuss things going on in our lives; the thing I remember our being most open about was our faith. Still to this day I can't remember exactly how Evelyn defined herself, but I do know she is a Lutheran; as for Amara, she had grown up without faith of any kind, while I was quite the staunch Catholic even then because of how I had been raised. Over the next year, Evelyn and I would work with Amara until she found God. (Our teachers took notice, and would often comment that they hadn't seen such mature eight-year-olds in quite some time). Eventually, Amara made a deal with us, around the beginning of summer: she would attend church with one of us each Sunday for two months if we would just get off of her back about it.

"Everything was going according to plan. Evelyn and I made a deal before-hand which stipulated that there would be no hard feelings between us because of which Amara picked; it was quite a good thing we were the level-headed of the group, or hard feelings would have abounded. In the end, Amara picked Catholicism; I can still remember exactly what I said to her, as we left after mass that Sunday so long ago… I said, 'So, I take it you've made your choice?' She replied, 'I guess Catholicism really is what I've been missing… I think I'm going to like this whole religion thing.' I don't think I can ever forget the radiant look on her face the first time she sang the Alleluia.

"Time passed, as it always so unavoidably does, and before we knew quite what had happened, the three of us had turned ten and twelve respectively, and we were off to middle school. Amara was quite peeved that she would need to explain to yet _another _school board why she was in fifth grade rather than seventh, but said she would deal with the jerks if she could stick with us. As for school itself, the three of us quickly resumed our old roles - Amara the sports star and popular with everyone; Evelyn the actress and soccer player whom everyone in the 'company' and on the team liked (she was still getting quite the solid B-average); and myself, the cool kid who managed to get the highest grades on every test - and life continued much as it had before. Middle school was by far the quietest years of our friendship, save for Amara's taking on more sports than any normal person could have otherwise handled, along with martial arts; Evelyn figured out she was not only heterosexual, but asexual as well; and I came to the conclusion that I am ever-so-slightly bisexual, though only for the _extremely feminine men_. Amara didn't even touch the subject of sexuality with us until high school, though I could never figure out why; I strongly believe that, had she at least told me before high school, much grief could have been avoided. Though we were different as could be during middle school, our sibling-like love for one another had us irrevocably glued together.

"You ask why I said 'grief' before? The answer is so devastatingly simple, and yet, excruciatingly complex. Somehow, someway, I had fallen in love with one of my best friends. Somewhere along the way of the near seven years we had known one another, I realized at the end of eighth grade that I had fallen in love with Amara. If I had to give you a time frame, though I'm not so sure I can, there is only one which comes to mind. I fell in love with her before I even knew a thing about her. I didn't even know her name on the day she saved me, and unknowingly stole my heart. Only now, eighteen years later, have I finally gotten it back, as it turns out she never wanted it in the first place, or, at least never in a romantic sense. The answer to your unspoken 'why' is, once again, excruciatingly complex, and yet, devastatingly simple.

"Amara is a lesbian.

"And yet, despite knowing that by the time we were sophomores, I continued to love her anyway. To diverge from the current topic, and continue my narrative, high school was a completely different ball game. Evelyn and I shared most of our classes, save for the fact that she took art/theater courses while I took theology and religion - I wished to know of as many views as I could, so I could better minister to the congregation later in life. As for the third member of our group, she joined us in the advanced classes only _after _she'd had a rude wake-up call about her conflicting sports and academics. Amara picked the sports which mattered most to her, and set to have Evelyn and I 'kick her academic ass' over the summer, to quote the racer herself. Lynn and I agreed, and we thoroughly drilled the needed information into Amara's head, the fact that she even marginally understood Biology, Geometry, English 201, Latin II, the entirety of the Old Testament (New Testament was mandatory for sophomores, and it was assumed one had taken Old Testament the year before), and enough Ancient History to be accepted into AP European History is a testament to her mental capacity in and of itself.

"Everything went smoothly until after Christmas break of our sophomore year. Then came the worst day of my life, one cold Saturday close to the end of January. Evelyn was on a trip with the Theater Company - I still don't know why it's called so - therefore, I had attended the practiced for Amara's race the next weekend. She was Italy's first junior racer in a long time, and she was _very _proud of that fact. Normally, I would have attended the girls' soccer games, but as Evelyn wasn't even in the country, I figured nearly freezing on one set of bleachers was the same as another, and so I went. I never expected that so much personal skill, dexterity, and precision actually went into Formula One racing - this I learned when allowed to take a so-called 'slow' lap in the car with Amara; truth be told, I have only been _that _scared about three other times in my life. I _never _want to repeat _any _of those times, but I could see why Amara loved what she did; I have only experienced such boundless joy after first performing a flawless High Mass in Latin in the Sistine Chapel.

"To return to my topic, after her practice was over, Amara invited me to join her for a study session/afternoon to hang out back at her apartment; despite her being only seventeen at the time, she owned her apartment, had her own car, and also had a full-time joy to pay for tuition because of her emancipation. The detailed of that are messy, and so I won't get into them. We studied for a few hours, and then took a break for dinner, as was the norm for our group study sessions/hang out afternoons, whether the full group was present or not. After ascertaining what she should make, she headed for the kitchen; that left me to clean up and to my thoughts. I had decided I would come clean about my feelings for her. Little did I know, she would come clean, too.

"I waited until after dinner, at which time it was unspoken tradition for our group to play Cribbage or BS for an hour or two before the other two headed home. Amara had just dealt the first hand and was waiting for me to initiate what we called the 'begging' phase, when I spoke. I told her I had something to tell her; she looked slightly pale, but said she had something to tell me, too. That didn't worry me as much as it should have, as she was always - usually - confident in everything she said, even if she were wrong. We couldn't agree on whom should speak first, then resolved to spill at the same time. She said, 'I'm a lesbian,' at the same second as I blurted, 'I'm in love with you.'

"I felt my world begin to shatter, but it truly did so only a heartbeat later. This was because she had begun crying, leaned close, and kissed me. She breathed, almost _sobbed_, 'I'm so sorry' against my lips, and then she was gone. I took that as my signal - my cue, as Evelyn would have said - to leave. We never played cards that night, and so broke another thing which had been an unspoken tradition - tacitly that way everything was supposed to always be. The first was our friendship - she feared on her account, I on my own.

"That was the second time she touched my life in a profound manner.

"We kept our distance for a few days afterward; God knows, we probably wouldn't have spoken for the rest of the year, if Evelyn hadn't gotten completely and totally fed up with our childish behavior. Lynn literally slapped sense into us that day, but if we listened because we were truly ashamed of our actions, or because she had wounded our pride, I'll never know - though, it was certainly the later case for myself on other occasion. When everything was said and done, life continued as normal; or rather, as normal as things could be after something like that. The next school year changed things for us yet again; just slightly for Evelyn and I, though very much so for Amara.

"A new girl had just transferred from a very prestigious, up-scale finishing school, when the second week of the first month of first semester began. Her name was Michelle Kaioh, and she was everything any stuck-up rich girl would be. The three of us had made fun of her until she arrived - new traveled fast around school - and so I didn't bother to pay attention past her cold, aloof manner; her slightly haughty prowess; her stunning yet fake - I assumed - good looks. Of course, that was all turned upside-down when - impossibly, inexplicably - Amara took a liking to her. For one fleeting, painful, _horrible _moment after Amara told Lynn and I that she thought she may have been falling for the new girl - for one completely insane moment - I hated Michelle. Hated her with a feeling so strong, it felt like it would consume me. Then the guilt, the self-loathing, the _shame _settled in. Putting aside whatever I may have felt in that one moment, I welcomed Michelle into the group with Evelyn, and tried to get to know her. Though we found that what she showed the world was merely a mask to keep herself from being hurt - and that her true personality was that of a sophisticated and classy violinist, yet also an eclectic, fun-loving artist, with a dash of sports-minded swimmer thrown in - I couldn't help but still dislike Michelle. Of course, if she really did complete Amara, and make the blonde as happy as she seemed to, who was I to judge that? It was around then that I really began to think about what certain cows of my chosen calling would mean for me; this just increased the already not-inconsiderable amount of teasing I had already been getting, but Amara and Evelyn made bearable this time around.

"The all-school retreat that year brought about some interesting developments. First and foremost, Amara and Michelle's relationship had been taken to a physical level - most of us did _not _want to hear that at three a.m., and they were given a month's detention for it. Secondly, our bonds as a group solidified, even if I couldn't help but be a bit cool with Michelle at times. Finally, something I still have yet to completely understand took place; and between Lynn and myself, at that. It seemed accidental then, but I believe Amara had a hand in its planning. The last night before we were to leave, and end that most eventful week, Lynn and I were taking a walk - we were alone because neither of us is terribly social, and because Amara and Michelle wanted time to themselves. We walked and talked and, though to this day I'm not sure how or why it happened, but we ended up sharing a kiss that night. Amara had been my first kiss; Evelyn my second. I found that there was a world of difference between the two. The first: unexpected, unwanted, cold; one of the most emotionally painful experienced of my life, next to the deaths of my parents. The second… I can't even begin to put it into words, but only now do I fully realize what I gave up that night.

"I pulled back from the kiss, and told Evelyn that we couldn't engage in any relationship, least of all because of my selfish want to not know what I could never have. She said it didn't matter, we could be together even without physicality playing a role, besides the thought of _that _at all scared her half to death anyway. Then I mentioned what I felt for Amara, that it would only hurt us both if I were to lead her on. Even though she smiled and laughed then, telling me that I was probably right anyways, that her whole idea had been stupid, and besides she wasn't even Catholic anyway, so we still wouldn't have had a snowballs chance in Hell, I knew she still hurt. She said we would just stay friends, and forget about everything and things would go back to normal. She would always rant when she was feeling strong emotions. We parted ways then; things went back to normal, save for a few awkward moments on the bus ride back, and in the following weeks. Our junior year ended, and our group sent out our completed college applications when the summer started.

"We spent the next school year - our senior and final in high school - cementing our grades, and pretty much having a blast. That year, if I remember correctly - though not for our lack of trying to stop her - was when Amara started drinking. It never got very serious, just a glass or two of whiskey or tequila at parties, or maybe wine to celebrate finishing our second-to-last set of mid-terms in high school or what not. Around that same time, my father gave me an ultimatum: I would need to give my mandatory term of military service before I would be allowed to enter seminary. When I mentioned this to the group, Evelyn and Michelle both readily admitted to having no taste for the military. Amara, however, surprised all of us with her response: she would attend the Academy with me, as that served as attending college, but that I would be on my own for the term of service - unless, of course, I could convince her otherwise during the three years needed to graduate the Academy. Our choices made, the school year ended quickly after that.

"The group split off the middle of that summer. Evelyn headed off to college in Madrid on a soccer scholarship; she wanted to play professionally. Michelle got on a plane bound for America; New York's Juliard Academy of the Arts had welcomed the budding violin prodigy with open arms. As for Amara and I, we had a few week of down-time before diving head-first into the rigorous physical, mental, practical, and academic curriculum of the Military Academy.

"The next three years are almost completely a blur, though some events do stand out, all of which cemented the fact that Amara and I would always be incredibly close. Always best friends. Always siblings in everything but blood. Always there when the other needed saving, be it from something as mundane as detention or as life-threatening as extreme illness. Always be each other's side, we would always have the other's back, but we would never be anything even remotely romantic. There are three moments I remember best. The first when we found out we would learn to fly together; she would pilot a fighter jet, as she had a knack for weapons, while I would fly a helicopter, bringing supplies and medication. Every time we were deployed - top of our class, first to be sent out of the rookies - we would always make the other swear to come back alive; we were hopeful, not stupid, so we always only prayed the other would come back alive. Wounds could heal - the dead couldn't be brought back to life.

"The second, the one time Amara didn't come back. The missions we were sent on were routine; I was to take a shipment of medicine to a designated regiment, she was to do recon - cover recon. She wasn't to engage under any circumstances - not unless she would be shot down otherwise. In the end, she had no choice. I was on the way back when the message came through; it was broken and fragmented by static, but I knew she had intentionally sent it to base, and to me. Base got the message itself from her words; I got that she was alive, and that she _would _come back alive - everything else like the when and the how were unknown. We waited two weeks; I managed to allay Evelyn and Michelle's concerns and fears for one of those weeks - we kept in contact via instant messaging. By the end of the second, base was ready to pronounce Amara either dead or MIA; the former seemed the more probable. Then, less than two days later, Amara showed up, unconscious, in the middle of the runway. We three found out later that she'd been shot down and had been forced to make her way back on foot. She'd apparently faced death a few more times on her way, but thanked her martial arts and point-blank accuracy that she was still alive, even if not completely whole. She'd lost most of her right leg when she'd inadvertently stepped on a mine; only her reflexes had kept her from losing anything more. She was fitted with a cybernetic replacement, and then taken off the service roster. Amara didn't seem too bothered by this; as the new limb worked as well as the old one had, she would just start her professional racing career closer to the original date than the revised plans had called for.

"That brings me to the third instance. She had asked that I see her off, and so I did. As always, we parted with a hug. She said, 'Be safe, alright?' I replied, 'So long as you are.' That got a smirk out of her, then she leaned in close, and kissed me again. The she said, after that two-second tough of lips, 'Don't stake your life or your heart on me, little brother. You know I don't like to hurt you.' And then she left, and I felt as if I were fifteen again, watching her leave after the first time she had kissed me. I was twenty at the time, she twenty-two; I didn't see her again for five years.

"When my father died, I sent only two letters about it. Under normal circumstances, I would have sent three, but I couldn't know for certain exactly where Michelle would be, as her concert schedule was always much more varied that Amara's and her races, or Evelyn and her games. But, I knew she would find out soon enough; either Amara or Evelyn would tell her. I can't say exactly how I expected them to respond - perhaps a reply by letter, a call, an e-mail, or something of that nature - but I never expected the three of them to visit me. Amara and Michelle came a day or so before conclave was set to begin; Evelyn the evening when all was said and done. My oldest friend and I had a bit of a fight - old wounds reopened, things said in anger - and she left in a rage; Evelyn chastised me for what happened, when I let slip that anything happened at all.

"So, my oldest friend hates me; the woman I have too late realized my love for won't have a thing to do with me until things had been smoothed over; and, for better or for worse, I have been elected Pope. My good man, that is then the tale which I set out to tell you these two hours ago; it details my shortcomings, my best friends, and our life in general." He shook his head, smiling slightly sardonically. "It would serve me right if Amara showed up and gave her side to this crazy mess we call life…" As if on cue, the aforementioned blonde strode into the room.

"Speak of the Devil, and She shall appear," Patrick muttered, his soft Irish brogue lacing his words. He ignored the glare the tall racer shot him - she never had liked it when he compared her with Satan, especially given what had happened/been said - as she began her own tale.

"To begin my side of things, we all have always had a distinct way of telling an event. Evelyn speaks with emotion, getting side-tracked and worked up. Patrick attempts to emulate both the way Evelyn speaks and the way I do; his becomes a near-perfect mesh of the two. I speak plainly, telling the facts as they are - or in this case, have been - and neither more nor less than that. Now, without further preamble, I shall begin.

"My mother died giving birth to me; I have always been told I look exactly as she did, but no photograph nor name lends to that claim. My father was an alcoholic who took pleasure in beating me; this was because I could have been my mother's twin, and because I took her from him. I had not known the woman, nor anything about her, so I could neither mourn nor miss her. I did not experience anything akin to love or friendship until I was nine; when I was six, my father first raped me. I quickly learned that only the strong survive and there was no place in my world for a little girl, so I became a boy in all but physical gender. People knew not to mess with me before I even entered second grade; I wasn't given the name 'Trouble Tenou' for nothing

"To this day, though it doesn't matter anymore, I don't now why I saved Patrick that day. Whatever the motivation, that day set me on a different life path. Annoyed by the situation as I was to begin with, I quickly learned what friendship meant. Then everything went to Hell. Patrick's mom was killed in the bombing; I would have mourned the woman who was the closest thing to a mother I had ever known had I had the time. Less than a day after that, my father nearly beat me to death, and then shot himself. I was given into the care of relatives here in Rome, and set to therapy here in Rome, and sent to therapy for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Six months later, I was enrolled in a prep-school. Patrick and I were reunited, and life continued. Two months later, Evelyn dropped into our lives. She and Patrick contrived to make a Christian of me; less than a year later, I was baptized and took First Communion. My thinking 'I know that man on the cross; He was there the night I almost died' is the only clear thing I really remember of that time.

"Middle school was middle school; we were little fucks who thought we owned the world because we were smart, good at sports, and good at acting. Eva and Patrick were cool with their sexuality by high school; I wasn't. I hinted at mine to the family, and found myself an emancipated minor so fast my head spun. Why that didn't smack sense into me I'll never know, but it didn't. Only the threat of expulsion by the end of freshman year did. I got my shit together quick enough after that, and had Eva and Patrick kick my brainless ass into gear to boot. I came out the next January worried I'd fucked up, found out I hadn't, and still broke a heart I'd never wanted to break.

"I messed around until I met Chelly; never though I'd meet my one. I'd somehow fallen head-over-feet before I could even blink, and haven't yet falled out even almost ten years later. We finally did stuff right in high school, but I take no responsibility for the fact that Patrick was too damn stupid to see what he had back then in Eva. The group parted ways after senior year, and this guy and I learned to fly together. I almost died a few times over, lost a leg but gained a cybernetic one, and got yanked from the service roster. Started my racing career in earnest, and settled down with Michelle in Japan. Both our fathers are Japanese, so if we went by our middle names, it was fine. Five years later, just after a race in Russia, I get a letter about the Pope's death, I head over to Ireland to get Michelle, and then came back here.

"Shit goes down. We leave, fully intending never to come back. Couple days later, Eva calls; says we need to get our asses over here, as more shit's gonna go down. So, here I am, the wife's back at the hotel, and the best friend ain't nowhere to be seen, yet." As the affronted Cardinal tried to regain his balance after that, and as Patrick attempted to smooth over ruffled feathers on Amara's behalf, the emerald-eyed woman leaned against the wall, her face carefully neutral. Her crass words and blazing eyes spoke volumes.

Moments later, Evelyn entered, flanked by regiments of the Swiss Guard.

Evelyn halted in her tracks; the Swiss Guard crisply, if not confusedly, stopped without knocking into each other or Evelyn. Her maxi skirt drew the most attention with its blood red color and black seams. Her white blouse with long, loose sleeves and a frilled collar was tucked in to the waist-high skirt and revealed her neckline pendant: the outline of a cross with a solitary stick cross branching off, all in diamonds.

"Am I late?" she asked quietly. Amara offered her a terse nod while Patrick simply stared at the men flanking her. "Then I guess it's my turn. Sir Cardinal," she acknowledged quickly, dropping into an elegant curtsy - straight out of the seventeenth century - to show her, albeit Lutheran, respect. "I apologize in advance, Sir Cardinal, for my rapid speech; it's out of my control." With a nod from him, the blonde took a deep breath and did her best to keep her eyes away from Patrick.

"This," she began, fingering her cross necklace, "began, aided, burned, and very nearly destroyed our friendship. I had attended the same school from preschool until fourth grade. My family - my mother, my father, and my two dogs - moved from the small apartment I'd grown up in into an actual house. I started attending the same school as Patrick and Amara two months into the beginning of fifth grade.

"Amara refused to allow me to keep my wallflower demeanor. She also acted as my protector; an openly religious theatre geek didn't pass over well with the resident bullies. She took to calling me 'Eva' or 'Eve.' She also introduced me to Patrick, who prefers to call me 'Lynn.' He was also the person who managed to introduce Amara to God. I had attended church with her four times, at my Lutheran church, but hadn't been able to make a connection with her. Amara became a Catholic." She closed her eyes, her hands balling into fists in reaction to the Cardinal's obvious pleasure and Patrick's thinly veiled sense of victory. She stared at her feet as they peeked out from beneath her skirt, clad in black wedge booties, as she projected her voice as she was taught in theatre and continued her tale.

"Middle school was a quite three years. Amara hated moving schools; she had to explain the age difference again, as well as make all the bullied fear herself and, by extension, Patrick and myself. Patrick came to terms with his being, to an extent, bisexual. I identify myself as asexual, as well as heterosexual. Asexual mans that I am not _sexually _attracted to anyone; I simply don't have sexual thoughts.

"Supposedly, middle school is where my atelphobia stems from. Atelphobia is the irrational fear of never being good enough. Contrary to popular belief, atelphobia extends past romantic relationships into daily life. Anything I ever did, I felt as though it didn't live up to expectation.

"I was properly diagnosed with atelphobia Christmas break of sophomore year of high school. Sophomore year was also when Amara came out and when Patrick and Amara kissed." Evelyn kept a steady gaze on her feet, and realized both that her knees were clattering and that tears were beginning to blur her vision. Taking a deep breath, she gripped a handful of her skirt and soldiered forward. "Following the kiss, they were so awkward around each other, it was unbearable. They refused to admit what had passed until Patrick let it slip out on accident. I literally slapped them both and told them to get over it. When they realized that they were affecting me, they stopped mopping and things went back to normal.

"Amara ran cross country and track for our school and took private martial arts lessons. Patrick didn't really have any extra curricular activities, so he attended all our events. I was a member of both the Theatre Company and the girls' varsity soccer team.

"Junior year brought the most change while we were all together. Junior year is when Michelle transferred to our school. Despite her cold, spoiled, somewhat bitchy mask, she's actually artistic, fun-loving, and probably the classiest person I know. She's a violinist and a swimmer. She fit perfectly into our group, though Patrick was cold towards her for the first little while. Amara quickly fell for her, though she admitted it a week after the fact - Amara and I read each other very well. I instantly liked her and my trust - which is very difficult to earn and fragile - slowly but surely followed.

"The all-school retreat that year offered development for two different relationships. The first chronologically is that of Amara and Michelle; they'd been dating for about three weeks by this time. During the retreat, the physicality of their relationship began to mature." Evelyn allowed herself a short brief laugh and looked up to address the Cardinal fully, as he was the one who hadn't lived the friendship. "I'm often reminded of a line in the musical _The Drowsy Chaperone: _'Robert and I met on the lido deck of the Ile de France. He amused me with stories of his father's oil interests. We spooned, briefly, and then he proposed.' They had that same predestined physical attraction that took the emotions along for the ride." After a beat, she hastily added, "Not to say that they're not in love. Not at all. I simply mean to say that the physicality started it. I've never seen two people more in love than Amara and Michelle."

She took a deep breath and collected herself before she continued. "The second relationship that changed was the one I shared with Patrick." The definite past tense wasn't lost on Patrick; he wanted to look away, but he couldn't keep his eyes off of her. "It was the last night of the retreat; most people were diving off the high-dive, ganging up to shove teachers in, or doing other pool-related activities. Since Amara is afraid of water, she and Michelle went off on their own. Patrick and I went for a walk; neither of us wanted to risk being shoved into the pool. Then, suddenly, our conversation trickled to a stop and he leaned down and kissed me. It just felt _right_. I'll never understand how people can describe a kiss. Before you've had your first kiss, you can't even begin to fathom the feeling of it. Even after you've kissed 'the one,' words fail to capture the sheer emotional content of that kiss. The two words that he chose to use to describe our kiss were 'a' and 'mistake.' I rambled on and on about how I didn't need - correction: didn't _want _- the physicality of a relationship and how it had actually been a stupid idea and how I was Lutheran, so it wouldn't have worked out and so on and so forth.. I cried myself to sleep that night." She took a deep breath. "I fell asleep on the bus and, apparently, so did Patrick. We woke up sprawled across the two-person seat with our arms around each other. It was simple moments like that that made things difficult for a while, but eventually everything went back to normal.

"Senior year was a difficult one to face: it was our last year all together for who knew how long. Michelle was going to Juliard's in New York the next year to become a concert violinist. I was going to el Universidad Complutense de Madrid in Madrid, Spain to - hopefully - join Spain's women's national football team. Patrick and Amara were joining the military. While the two of them were away, I didn't care how safe they insisted they were, I prayed like there was no tomorrow. They were having fun, I suppose, learning to fly and whatnot, but it wasn't contagious enough. Their well-being was always there in the back of my mind. The way that they made the other swear to come back made me feel a bit better, I guess; the both of them were deadly serious about swears." She allowed herself a brief smile, beginning to fidget with her necklace. "But then the news of Amara's -" She hesitated, searching for the right word or phrase. "Near-death experience, I guess," she decided, "came. Michelle was in pieces, trying to figure out how she could get over to where they were. I was forced to stay where I was and focus on school and football; my coach was concerned because I wasn't playing like I normally was. My art in school started getting darker and, honestly, more psychological-thriller style. I became a different person than I had ever been before while she was missing. She finally showed up, and my art changed to this uneasy phase of healing. It was an interesting time for all of us; this was the first time anything of this size had ever happened to one of us. None of us were sure how to respond. Amara triumphed over it with flying colors. Patrick never fully opened himself to exploring how he felt about it; he was so deeply preoccupied with keeping Michelle at bay, who was obviously in pieces. I had no clue where I was. My friends said that I was empty during that time, that I was a shell of my former self. Eventually, we all fell into our old easy pattern.

"I got the letter and wasn't able to get straight out - I had a soccer game that I couldn't wiggle out of. I came when I could; I was only a few hours after Amara and Michelle arrived. He was unbelievably jumpy when I talked to him. He obviously wasn't focused on my being there. I found out later why. Amara and Michelle are getting married and, Patrick's being a priest, they wanted him to reside over their ceremony. He declined, most likely due to his still-present infatuation with Amara, and to say the least, she was hurt. To cover it up, she started joking and teasing - it's a habit we share. Patrick took her seriously and, to put it gently, took _her_." Evelyn blushed immensely as she screwed her eyes shut to prevent her tears.

Immediately, a chaotic uproar began all at once. When she opened her eyes again, the tears were gone as she responded to the situation by switching into captain mode. First, off she needed everyone's attention. "Hey!" she shouted, trying to be heard above the commotion. "Hey!" she tried again, this time cupping her hands around her mouth. Rolling her eyes at the continued noise, she slipped the thumb and index finger of her right hand into her mouth and created a high, piercing whistle. Once she finally had everyone's attention, she calmly stated "Everyone, shut the fuck up." She closed her eyes and grimaced for a moment. She mouthed an apology to the cardinal before soldiering forward. "That action is not ours to judge nor to punish. It's up to Amara and Patrick and, ultimately, God to forgive." She turned to the Guard members and said something in Swiss - she'd always had an affinity for languages. The Swiss Guard all saluted crisply before leaving. Evelyn too said her good-byes before leaving, throwing one last desperate gaze towards Patrick and one "don't-even-think-about-doing-something-stupid" near glare towards Amara. Both accepted their respective gaze with a nod. Evelyn exited, withdrawing herself, and Patrick immediately focused on soothing the poor Cardinal.

* * *

Although it could be considered blasphemous by some people, he had to admit that being in the confessional was somewhat an entertaining experience. One could learn so much about a person just by the sins they say they committed that past week and the way they say it. Some people would make a large fuss about having done simple, unavoidable things and others simply tossed out rather drastic things as if they were nothing. Of course, it got quite tedious and boring when the last fifteen minutes rolled around; not that he didn't love being a priest that was the farthest thing from the truth. It was simply beginning to get old to have to slide the screen door on either side of him as he heard penitents exit and a new one enter; his elbows were beginning to complain.

_I'm not _that_ old_, he thought to himself as he closed the screen door to his right and opened the one to his left. His hand, in a rather awkward position, froze when he heard the voice drift through the thin cloth.

"In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit," he heard the soft voice whisper, while the silhouette through the lacey fabric performed the sign of the cross. He didn't have a chance to speak before the voice began again. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," the voice said in a sure voice, though still barely above a whisper. He quickly made the sign of the cross on himself before lowering his arm and deciding, already, what the owner of the voice's penance would be. "It has been two days since my last confession." He blanched; she'd been gone for months! He then remembered that she'd probably been to the confessional just before she'd come to see him. He had reminded her that she could speak above a whisper when he visited her in his office. "I accuse myself of the following sins. I purposely led a man to commit adultery both in heart and body. I, too, have committed adultery in body. I am sorry for these and all the sins of my past life."

"To pay for your sins, you must say the Act of Contrition and wait outside the Cathedral for me," he said in a whisper.

"Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell. But most of all, because I have offended you, my God, who are all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve with the help of your grace, to confess my sins, to do penance and to amend my life. Amen."

"Give thanks to the Lord for He is good," he said, trying to stand up in the small space.

"His love endures forever," she finished, standing up as well. They both exited the confessional and exited the respective area. She continued outside the Cathedral, but stopped outside the door, sticking out with her white jeans, white button-up open over a black tank top, and black lace-up combat boots. He, however, retreated to the robbing room and quickly shed his priestly garb, hanging it up with care and locking up behind him. He walked out of the Cathedral and stood before her, unsure of how to start the incredibly awkward conversation.

"It's not your fault, you know," he finally stated. She looked up at him in surprise and began to open her mouth in protest before he plowed forward. "If I hadn't made the brash, inappropriate joke, nothing would have happened."

"It's my fault, too, though," she insisted. "If I hadn't teased you or continued to imply things, nothing would have happened either."

"We're both at fault, then," he stated plainly after a moment's pause. She nodded, not saying anything.

"I wasn't serious when I said that I'd never forgive you," she whispered. "I said it at the time because I was hurt and confused. I don't have it in my heart to lose my best friend." She offered him a tentative smile. He then stepped forward and hugged her and she answered quickly. He sighed quietly over her shoulder; he'd never be able to forgive himself. Especially because of the feelings that he'd discovered driving his actions. Life was never simple for him; he also couldn't begin to wonder why it hated him... Wait, scratch that, he knew well why it hated him, he just wondered why it was holding a grudge… And _maybe_ he should stop asking pointless questions he already knew the answers to…

* * *

**Hey, it's Evelyn. This chapter was difficult to write for me simply because there's so much past to look back on and to commentate on everything… It was a challenge for both of us. It's a lot of useful information, though, with details that will come to light in this story and the next. Don't complain about how the forgiveness was rushed or anything; try staying mad at someone this close to you and come back and tell us how long you managed to stay mad at them. The extremity of the action is balanced by the extremity of the friendship. I can only speak for myself when I say this, but: The next few chapters are going to be a bit more uplifting than this one. It's always darkest before dawn, though. Also! Don't complain this chapter wasn't necessary. It's nine thousand words that you will need as this story progresses. See you next time!**


	4. Promising Futures and Haunting Pasts

__**Okay, so, here's Part IV. Even if you don't like the story itself so far... well, at least this didn't take a year, right? DX Anyways, on with the chapter...**

* * *

_Maria Tenou -_

_This letter is inform you that you have been accepted to Oxford University's Summer Football Program for Youth. Out of our largest pool of entries yet, you displayed a passion for the sport, and a talent realized while not fully developed. You are the type of youth this program is designed for; you will be working alongside Oxford University's own Rebecca Dawson and the guest coach, Evelyn Steele from Spain's national women's team._

_There will be a follow-up letter from OUSFPY with specific information about dates, travel, and what to bring. This letter is primarily to let you know that you've been accepted._

_I look forward to meeting you._

_Sincerely,_

_Lord Patten_

_Chancellor of Oxford University_

**- AFL - AFL - AFL -**

"All right, everybody!" Evelyn called, drawing the attention of the twenty-five girls at the camp. In the past ten years, nothing much had changed with her. She hadn't grown taller, she hadn't changed all that much physically. She'd had a few crushes, but no serious boyfriends. Her hair was no longer, back to its waist-length it was before she'd gotten onto Spain's national women's team. Otherwise, she was still the fun-sized, lean, blonde-haired, ice blue-eyed, dorky, artistic soccer player she'd always been.

The summer program had been going on for a month, now, and she was still having loads of fun. With all the pressure of being a professional player, it was occasionally easy to be lost in the stress and wear-and-tear of the sport. With the summer programs that she participated in, like this one, she got back to the basics and saw the simply joy that the sport could bring. Really, that's all that she needed at the moment. She'd been go, go, go for too long; it was time to simply kick a ball in a circle. As she waited for the girls to all gather together, she brought a soccer ball into the cradle of her foot and simply held it there, adjusting her foot as necessary to prevent it from falling out. This was the second best part of soccer for her. The first part was the sport itself; after all, if she didn't love the sport, why on earth would she be doing what she's going? But the simplicity of the sport was a close second. She could go onto the field and go full autopilot. It didn't help that her autopilot was completely in Spanish – her second language – but autopilot was fun to run around on anyway.

"Everyone needs to grab a partner," she announced, setting the ball down and placing her hands on her hips. "We're going to work on some passing drills, then we'll move on to trapping." All the girls groaned, dragging their feet to grab a ball and partner. "Stop complaining! The sooner you girls prove to me you can do these, the sooner we get to a scrimmage." Immediately, all the girls perked up and rushed to get to work.

**- AFL - AFL - AFL -**

Emerald green eyes watched, as the other girls worked on mock matches. It had been three weeks since the start of the camp, but she had already learned more than she had in a year of training with her school/club team. Of course, currently she was on the bench, ice on a rather badly sprained ankle. She brushed some of her chin-length blonde hair back behind her ear, and sighed. The ten year old, who was rather tall for her age, started slightly, when one of the two coaches, Evelyn Steele took a seat beside her on the bench.

"Sorry if I startled you," Evelyn said with a smile, her own blonde hair pulled back into a high ponytail. "How's your ankle doing, Maria?" There was true concern in the elder blonde's ice-blue eyes.

The girl, Maria, merely looked at her for a moment. "It's doing alright," she finally allowed, unknowing that she looked just like her mother usually did, when she didn't wish to divulge a weakness.

Of course, Maria didn't know the woman, so she couldn't have known that. She had lived with her aunt, Anna, for as long as she could remember, and though she had pictures of her mother – a tall woman, with short-cropped sandy hair, which Maria had inherited, and unreadable emerald green eyes – she had never seen the woman in person. They had spoken on the phone a few times, but that had been the extent of any contact they had ever had. She understood that her mother was a busy woman, and that she didn't really have the time for a child or to keep much contact, but that didn't change the fact that it hurt. The only thing she had from her mother was the cross she never removed. In all truth, though, it wasn't the first one she had owned. The first, she could only vaguely remember, and knew best from photographs. Maria was snapped back to reality by Evelyn's waving a hand in front of her face.

"Hello," the coach drew out the 'o,' "anyone home? Earth to Maria."

The girl blinked, shaking her head. "Oh, sorry; lost in thought…"

Evelyn nodded, a peculiar expression on her face, one which Maria had gotten to know well by now. The two had grown close over the past three weeks, and the younger blonde had come to be able to read her coach fairly well. Not that the older woman ever really tried to hide anything, it was just the principle of the matter. "Yes, so I noticed. Gosh, you really do look like…"

"A very good friend of yours, I know, so you've told me," Maria answered, smirking a bit. The quirk of her lips only heightened the resemblance Evelyn was seeing, but it wasn't to the friend one would have assumed. The ten year old then quirked a brow in question, musing, "Say, Coach, who is this friend of yours, anyways…?" Her expression may have been innocent enough, but her eyes were slightly dark, almost… calculating, somehow. The ice-blue-eyed woman brushed it off and answered.

"You might know him, actually… Well, of him, at least." She grinned sheepishly and shrugged. "His name's Patrick McKenna, but you probably know him as Michael I."

Evelyn had to stifle a giggle at Maria's reaction; the girl's mask of calm had fallen, and her eyes had all but bugged out of her head. "Y-You know the Pope?" The younger girl's shock was both palpable and easily read. "And on a first-name basis, too… Damn," she whistled softly. "Coach, that just moved you up five more notches on the cool scale for me… Wow…" It seemed that she had been completely floored by the revelation, and was having a hard time getting her emotions and expressions back under control. Once she had regained herself, Maria spoke again. "That's really cool, to know someone like that so well… I don't know anyone like that, though I suppose my aunt is pretty cool… And, from what little I know, my mother is, too." Her mask was back in place; only her eyes showed how much it hurt that she could only guess at even that about her mother.

Evelyn responded to it right away, her mothering instinct flaring to life. "What do you mean, from what little you know?" Her curiosity mixed with her concern.

Maria regarded her blankly for a moment. Then she spoke. "I've never met my mother, Coach, and only spoken to her a few times on the phone. She is a very busy woman, and does not have time for me. I fully understand that."

The older woman's mothering instinct cried out in anguish, but she held it at bay. "And… your father?" She knew it may have been rude to ask, and she also knew she was pushing her luck, considering how cold Maria was with everyone else, but she felt the need to know.

Once more, she received that same blank look, before the girl responded. "I know nothing of the man who fathered me."

And that did it. Evelyn reached over and hugged the girl. However, Maria pushed away gently, her smile rather obviously fake, and meant to hide the pain in her eyes from that action. "Hey, now, Coach, I don't want to be ganged up on by the other girls, and you can't be seen to show favoritism, now can you?" The last was a teasing deterrent, the slightly taller blonde could see that plain as day, but she allowed it. It seemed she had touched a place in Maria's soul that the girl didn't want anyone near.

Evelyn laughed a bit, even if it, too, was obviously fake. "You're right, that would be bad. Sorry for putting you in that place for a minute, Maria."

A moment or so passed, and the tension eased again. An impish smile was suddenly tugging at the younger blonde's lips, as she raised a hand to cup at the side of her mouth. "Hey, Coach, you know what?"

Evelyn raised both eyebrows, glad for the little game of fake-conspiratory intentions. "Hm? What?"

The impish smile broadened, but never reached grey eyes. "About your friend, His Holiness… Since I was born in the same year he was elected, sometimes," she blushed just a tiny bit, "sometimes I call him my Pope, my Father."

This struck the older woman. Oh how similar they truly were… She covered this with a mischievous smile of her own. "And do you know what, little Maria?"

"What?" A quick pause, then – "Hey! I'm so not little! I'm almost as tall as you are!"

Evelyn merely laughed softly, choosing not to comment upon the younger blonde's height. "Sometimes, I call him that, too; my Pope, my Patrick."

She was very glad when Maria didn't catch the implication that statement made.

**- AFL - AFL - AFL -**

The rest of the camp was a huge success. Maria made a full recovery and went on to impress Evelyn more and more with each step. She also lessened the similarity she held to Patrick for Evelyn with each step; Patrick wasn't athletic, and wasn't particularly coordinated either. This graceful, tall, talented soccer player couldn't possibly be anything like Patrick. But, off the field, there was a raised eyebrow here, a cunning smirk there, and the similarities hit her in the face like a ton of bricks. It was fascinating.

"Since it's your birthday," Evelyn prompted as she stood with Maria in the airport, "I have something for you." Evelyn had promised Maria to drive her to the airport so she could fly back to New York, to her aunt. But, she was now standing in the middle of the airport, sporting navy blue TOMS, red skinny jeans, and a Real Madrid jersey, carrying her athletic bag on her shoulder with her purse at her feet. She reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope. "When I bought your ticket, it seems that I picked the wrong destination and got a second one, so I hope you don't mind that I'm going with you on this little adventure." She then handed Maria the envelope.

Maria raised an eyebrow before ripping into the envelope and pulling out its content. It was an airplane ticket. A single airplane ticket. She glanced up at Evelyn, who still had an expectant look on her face. So, there was more to the ticket than the simple fact that it was a ticket. She pulled the ticket out from its little holder and began to read the details. It was roundtrip, which was odd; she was supposed to be returning home. As she read more closely, she finally reached the destination: Vatican City. "Holy shit!" Maria squeaked, immediately covering her mouth out of some worry that she'd get in trouble if more curse words spilled past her lips. "We're going to Vatican City!" She began to jump up and down, excited like a girl whose father had just told her she'd gotten a pony. This was much more than a simple pony, though. This was unbelievable. "Can we…" She trailed off before starting again. "Could you…" She groaned, frustrated with how difficult it was to word her question.

"Yes, I'm going to take you to see the Pope," Evelyn nodded, a large grin on her face. "Now, come on." She began to walk through the airport to the right terminal, waving for Maria to follow her. "We can't be late for our flight."

**- AFL - AFL - AFL -**

There was a knock at his door. He stood up and was only halfway to the door when the door actually opened. He froze for a moment; whoever opened the door without his permission must be gutsy or very important, possibly even a combination of both. What he wasn't expecting, though, was Evelyn to walk in, a girl he'd never met before in tow.

"Hi, Patrick," Evelyn smiled. She stepped forward, her arms inching up slightly. He exhaled and hugged her, still nervous with the looks the girl was giving him. She had to be at least fourteen or fifteen. "This is Maria," Evelyn introduced, motioning to the girl, who then nervously tucked a lock of sandy blonde hair behind her ear. "She's from my soccer camp. She's always wanted to meet you." She leaned forward to whisper in Patrick's ear, "I wouldn't normally do this, but she was born the same year you became Pope. You're pretty much Superman for her. And a guardian angel of sorts." She leaned back and motioned Maria forward.

As Patrick smiled at her, trying to ease some of her obvious nerves, he quickly did some mental math. If she was born the year he became Pope, she'd only be ten years old. She was ten? She was incredibly tall for her age. Of course, he shouldn't judge – the woman Maria was standing next too wasn't all too tall herself, and when he'd first met Amara, she'd been a good head taller than everyone else, too.

"This is Michael I," Evelyn introduced, making eye contact with Maria and indicating Patrick. She kissed his ring, as was the traditional and Catholic greeting, and looked up at him and grinned widely. "Your Holiness," she murmured, beaming, "it's… _such_ an honor to meet you." He realized that she was really meeting some sort of idol for her. A beat later, all the breath in his lungs left him – her eyes, her gorgeous green eyes, were Amara's. Her eyes, her height, her hair, all of it was Amara's. That could only mean…

"Dear God," he muttered under his breath.

Maria tilted her head to the side, the only outward indication of her confusion. "Your… Holiness…?" She questioned softly, her face and voice betraying nothing. His heart clenched; Amara did the same, concealed her emotions, and yet could be read like an open book for those that knew what to look for. And this girl… Maria… she had many of the same mannerisms. Patrick forced himself to calm; he couldn't jump to conclusions, he couldn't freak out – at least, he couldn't freak out until he knew for sure. Then, if he was given irrefutable proof… _then_ the freaking out could commence. Steadying himself, he cleared his throat, and murmured, "Tell me, Maria, what is your full name, if I may ask…?"

The young blonde stared blankly for a moment, and then answered, her tone hesitant. "Though with all due respect, Your Holiness, I don't know why you would wish to know… My full name… Is Maria Tenou."

Patrick blanched, the air removed from his lungs once again feeling as if he had been punched in the gut. He looked to Evelyn, then, betrayal written in his grey eyes. The soccer-player's ice blue eyes widened in horror, as she put two and two together and got four exactly.

"I'm sorry," she all but squeaked. "I knew, but… I think I just forgot what her last name was, since I never used it…"

Maria looked back and forth between the two, confused, but her face remaining blank. "Pardon my rudeness, but…" Usually she wouldn't have cared that she was being rude, but, in this case, she made use of the manners she had had drilled into her head since she was very young. "Did I do something… wrong…?"

Evelyn shook her head, seeming almost frantic as she tried to explain, but just ended up tripping over her words. "No! Not at all, Maria! It's just… Do you remember… When you told me that… you saw Michael I – Patrick – as your father? Um… well…" She attempted to explain, but failed, and so Patrick, though he was still nearly completely shell-shocked, forced himself to divert the proverbial fire to himself.

At Maria's nod, he spoke.

"Maria… There is no easy way for me to say this, but… It's true." He knew it was slightly lame, but it was all he could manage at the moment.

For once, Maria allowed her perplexity to show on her face, but only slightly. "It's true…?" She echoed, for once her mind failing her.

What was said next… shocked her more than anything had in her life up to that point.

"It's true," Patrick reiterated. "I am your father."

Emerald eyes widened, her mask shattering. "No…" she whispered, shaking her head, as she backed up slightly. "No…"

"Maria – " He reached out for her, but she jerked away, the revelation that she _had_ a father having rocked her to her core.

"NO!" Her final denial was almost screamed, as she turned and fled from the room. As she turned and ran, both adults could have sworn they saw tears streaming down her cheeks.

Patrick moved to follow the girl – _his daughter_ – but stopped, when he felt Evelyn's hand upon his shoulder. He looked back at her, questioning. His anguish over both the situation and the hurt he had caused Maria showed clearly in his eyes.

"No, _amor_," she murmured, shaking her head slightly. It seemed that the blonde had regained herself by this time. "You need to let her go. This is a scared place for her; she won't do anything drastic, but… She needs to be alone for now. You can talk to her later, once we've called in the cavalry and gotten the full story." By 'the cavalry' she obviously meant Amara and Michelle.

He sighed, but nodded. "You're right," he murmured, but then his expression hardened. "I just hope that this never gets out… If it does, I'll have cries and charges of heresy brought down on my head faster than one can say 'rape'…" His humor was grim, but then again, so was the situation.

Little did either of them know, that his words would end up being prophetic.


End file.
